Got My Eyes On You
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: Five times Bubonic kept tabs on Tommy (and one time Tommy was the one watching Bubonic). [Tommy/Bubonic with a side of Tommy/Connor, post-canon.]


_Still not sure why I ship two characters who shared maybe five minutes of screen time so badly that I can't let go of them even months after the show was cancelled, but it looks like Tommy and Bubonic have taken permanent residence in my brain... (Also, I needed an actual name for Bubonic, and IMDb lists him as 'Charlie' for some reason. So even though it was never mentioned on the show, I kind of adopted this as my head canon.)  
_

 **Got My Eyes On You  
** by Sandrine Shaw

I.

Calligan answers the call on the second ring.

He's probably expecting to hear from Lindy, after she'd walked out of his life without as much as a kiss goodbye. Life's just one endless string of disappointments for the good detective. It's better than anything Charlie could have hoped for. How could he possibly resist gloating a little?

"I hear congratulations are in order. Here you are, hero of the day. Got your killer, saved the girl – and still you lose her. Tell me, how does it feel, Tommy, to do everything right for once and end up with nothing?"

The silence at the other end of the line stretches. Charlie can imagine how the little wheels in Calligan's head must be spinning as he's figuring out just who's at the other end of the line. It's altogether too easy to push his buttons.

After Lisa died, Charlie lashed out blindly. It wasn't at all about revenge, he just wanted to pass on the pain, wanted everyone else to hurt as badly as he did. All the rage, all the anger, all the bitterness – he didn't know quite how to aim it precisely, or even care to. The idea of revenge didn't really factor in until later, when the red mist of rage had cleared a little. When he could _think_ again, plan again.

He targeted Calligan because he was the easiest choice. There were a lot of people that had a hand in Lisa's death, starting with Sergeant Shaw, but if he let himself go after her, he'd not have been able to stop until she was dead.

The thing with Calligan is – it's hard to stop going after him because it's more satisfying than he had imagined it to be. He reacted _beautifully_ at the loft, all confusion and anger, quick on the draw, bringing a gun to a battle of wits that he'd lost before it even started. It's hard to resist pushing him a bit more, just to see him snap.

The vehemence of Calligan's anger carries through the phone. "You knew it was Bolin, didn't you? You knew the whole fucking time. People were dying, and you could have stopped it, but you just stood by and watched it happen."

The man's lack of self-awareness is staggering, and even though Charlie mostly called to wind him up, rubbing salt into the wound Lindy caused by leaving, he finds his hackles rising in response to Calligan's accusations.

It's hardly his fault that Lindy didn't think to ask him the right question – _"Do you know anything about my sister?"_ when what she should have asked was, _"What do you know about the Flirtual Killer?"_ Charlie had just delivered him to her on a silver platter, but she got the hero and the villain confused and rushed in to save Jake instead.

"Come on now, that's hardly on me. You and your Cyber Crimes Unit were the ones who had him and let him go. So really, if you think about it, it was once again your mistakes causing people to lose their lives. Stop blaming me for your failures."

"Really?" Calligan scoffs. "That's rich, coming from you. How about you take a long, hard look at yourself the next time you blame anyone else for what happened to your girlfriend?"

Charlie grips the phone so tightly that the edges bite painfully into his palm. He wants to smash it, smash it to bits and imagine it's Calligan's head. He grinds his teeth and swallows the useless threats that are on his tongue, the acrid comebacks that are neither particularly clever nor productive, ending the call with a quick flick of his thumb.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in a fruitless attempt to steady himself.

Instead, he imagines Lisa's dead body in the holding cell the morning when they found her. He'd hacked the security footage no one had obviously been observing during the night. He'd only watched it once, rushing to the bathroom and puking his guts out afterwards, couldn't bear even the idea of seeing it again.

The knowledge that Calligan isn't entirely wrong is painful, but it's not a revelation. Even though Charlie's been doing his best to keep the self-reproach at bay by focusing on the people who pushed her into suicide rather than on the person she did it for, he knows too well that he was the one who put her into this position in the first place. Cyber Crimes would never have targeted her if she hadn't been his girlfriend, if he hadn't pushed both himself and her into the crosshairs with his actions.

Doesn't mean that his culpability absolves Calligan and his unit. A beautiful, smart, innocent young woman died, and there's enough blame going around for everyone.

* * *

II.

The second anniversary of Lisa's death passes so quietly and inconspicuously that Tommy thinks he'll be alright until he's on his way home from the station. A traffic light ahead switches to yellow and when he hits the brakes, the car doesn't react.

He tries again. Nothing. Instead, without him putting his foot down on the gas, it accelerates, bursting down the crossroad just before the light turns red. He grips the steering wheel, trying to pull over, but the car just continues to shoot straight ahead.

Panic kicks him low in the gut.

Even though he knows it's futile, his foot continues to stomp on the brake pedal, kicking it so hard that his calf muscles start cramping. He's nothing but a passenger in his car and he's going too fast. Up front, the road swerves into a narrow curve. He either needs to regain control before that or stop the car or get the hell out. Jumping off at this sort of speed might kill him, but it's still better than sitting in the driver's seat unable to do anything while the car slams into a tree trunk.

Ripping off the safety belt, he grabs the door handle. Mentally, he's already two steps ahead, bracing himself for the fall. He pushes down the handle, and it takes him seconds to realize that there's no give. He's locked inside.

He tries again for good measure, but it's pointless. When he turns back front, the curve is getting closer, and it's all he can do to fumble with the lock of the safety belt, fixing it as quick as he can. He stares ahead at the approaching turn, forcing himself not to close his eyes, and his hands come up to uselessly clutch at the steering wheel. Five... four... three... two... one...

The impact he expected doesn't come. The car slows down abruptly and gently eases around the curve before it pulls over at the side of the road.

The engine gives a final howl before it dies.

The display of the GPS device switches on, red letters on a black screen. _You think you're in control, but you're not. Happy anniversary, Tommy._

"Son of a bitch," Tommy mutters under his breath, but he's so shaken he can barely muster the appropriate anger. Before his inner eye, he still sees the curve flying towards him, his bones shaking from an impact that never happened.

He takes a deep breath and turns the key in the ignition. The roaring of the engine makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up, and he wonders how long it'll be until he'll feel safe in a car again. Until he trusts any car again, knowing how easily it can be manipulated.

There's a part of him that can't help wondering if Bubonic hadn't been tempted to see it through, let the car crash and watch it go up in flames rather than just giving Tommy a good scare.

He's still thinking about that when the car abruptly grinds to a halt at a crossing, so violently that Tommy is slammed against the steering wheel. Pain explodes in his ribcage, air driving out of his lungs. There's a loud noise in the air, a honking that outmatches the roaring in his ears. Disoriented, he tries to locate it and spots a truck coming from the left, shooting past him as the driver gestures angrily at him. It takes Tommy a moment too long to understand that the truck would have hit him, would have crashed right into his side if his car hadn't stopped.

The roaring in his head intensifies. He lets his head sink onto the steering wheel and tries to get his breathing under control, hyperaware of the rabbit sound of his heartbeat in his chest.

His phone rings. When he reaches to accept the call, his fingers are shaking so badly that he has to hit the screen twice until it switches on.

"What the hell was that?" The voice is familiar, the anger isn't. "Do you realize what would have happened here if I'd already gone offline? I hadn't pecked you for suicidal."

Tommy doesn't have it in him to be surprised by the call or the sentiment. He feels disconnected, numb, unable to tap into anger of his own, unable to feel much of anything except for a punch-to-the-gut sense of relief that's too sharp and intense to be comforting. "I wasn't– I didn't see the truck coming. I wasn't looking."

"Of course you weren't. Let me ask again, Detective, do you want to die?"

Tommy leans back, closes his eyes. _Anger_ , he thinks. _I should be the one yelling at him, not the other way around. I wouldn't have ignored that red light or almost crashed into a truck if Bubonic hadn't got under my skin so badly with his little game. This is his fault._

Here's the thing he can't shake, though: Bubonic just saved his life. He not only chose not to kill him, but actually stopped him from being stupid and inattentive enough to get himself killed in a traffic accident. Tommy can't figure out what that means but he's been a cop long enough to know that there's a difference between not wanting someone dead badly enough that you'd actually kill them and plainly not wanting someone dead.

He takes a breath, and his voice is almost steady when he speaks and much calmer than he feels. "Look, you can't make elaborate plans to rattle me and then expect me not to actually be rattled afterwards. That's not how it works."

If there's an edge in his tone, it's not so much accusation as it's frustration. _What do you_ want _from me?_

There's silence at the other end of the line, and Tommy almost thinks that Bubonic cut the call again, but then he makes a small, frustrated sound. "Fair enough. Are you going to be okay getting home or do you actually need me to get you there by remote control?"

Sarcasm is the first thing to return, even when he still feels like his head is filled with vacuum. "It's just five more blocks. I think I'll manage without you holding my hand."

"See that you do. I'd hate to hear that you accidentally killed yourself before I'm done toying with you."

And just like that, the line goes dead.

Tommy carefully steers home, silently wondering if Bubonic is still tapped into his car, watching him. He's half-tempted to do another reckless thing, just to see what would happen.

* * *

III.

Charlie is bored. Bored out of his mind, and nothing good ever happens when he doesn't know what to do with his time.

In the old days ( _before_ ), he would have exposed some government secrets, blown open corrupt politicians' machinations, ruined an exploitative company, but he went silent for a reason, and he's not going to risk it just because his fingers get itchy.

He taps into the live footage from the cameras in Calligan's apartment by habit, the way other people automatically open some game app or their social network of choice while absent-mindedly playing with their smartphones.

The wide angle shot from above the loft's entrance door shows Tommy, shirtless, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. He's smiling, his lips moving as he says something. Charlie zeroes in on the other person in the room. He expects some pretty brunette, looking enough like Lindy to be Tommy's type but not so much that it would trigger a guilt trip. What he doesn't expect is the annoying journalist friend of Lindy's roommate sprawled across the couch, glass of red wine in his hand, looking at Tommy like a man dying of thirst stares at a well.

"Well, well, well, Detective Calligan, aren't we full of surprises," Charlie mutters, watching Tommy stalk towards the guy – Colin? Curtis? No, wait, Connor. He remembers seeing his name on the byline of the articles about the Flirtual Killer – with intent and Connor get up and meet him halfway. Then they're kissing, Connor's hands mapping out Tommy's body, and Charlie knows he should stop watching. He has all the information he might need, enough to potentially use it against Tommy. The details don't matter. Whether Connor and him are just making out or if Tommy bends Connor over the couch and fucks him, whether or not this is a one-time thing or a relationship, it's all inconsequential.

It should be.

Except Charlie's not good at impulse control, never has been, and even though he's perfectly aware that his... preoccupation with Detective Tommy Calligan has long since surpassed the need for revenge and is rapidly getting out of control, he can't walk away from this.

Eyes fixed on the screen, he watches as Tommy pushes Connor against a wall, pulling Connor's arms above his head and pinning them there with one hand wrapped around Connor's wrists. Even in the dim light of the loft, it's plain to see the shift of the muscles in his back, the red of the bruises and bite marks he leaves down Connor's neck, the rapture on Connor's face when Tommy's hand opens the belt of his jeans and snakes inside.

Charlie follows their journey from the living room to the bedroom, telling himself it's detached interest, but it's no use: he's painfully hard, and he can't even pretend that it's merely because he's enjoying a private live sex show. He never had much interest in porn, not even when he was a teenager and it was all his classmates ever talked about. Sure, he can acknowledge that watching two reasonably attractive people getting it on is hot, but it never managed to hold his interest for long, not when he could immerse himself in code instead.

This, though– Detective Calligan. Tommy. Naked, uninhibited, covering some guy's body with his. The expanse of tanned naked skin, the pale white of an old knife wound on his side. Connor's barely a footnote in this; he doesn't hold even a fraction of Charlie's attention.

It's Tommy's face when he comes that pushes Charlie over the edge as well. Closed eyes, slack mouth, flushed skin, his expression one of reckless abandon. Charlie zooms in and freezes the frame, pressing the heel of his hand against his hard-on. It's enough to make him come in his pants like a horny kid.

Afterwards, anger throbs in his veins, accompanied by the hot rush of guilt. He slams down the power button of the screen, Tommy's frozen face fading to black. Right in this moment, he wants to hurt Tommy more than he ever did since the morning Lisa died, wants to _ruin_ him, wants to take the recording and mail it to every single person he knows.

He pushes his fury down. Much as Tommy may be deserving of his anger, it would be unfair to blame him for Charlie's inappropriate obsession with a man he should by all rights hate. And to use that recording now, just because he's feeling embarrassed and guilty, rattled by the idea that he betrayed Lisa's memory, would be foolish, a waste of what could be solid blackmail material should be ever have a use for it.

* * *

IV.

The lamp on the ceiling flickers.

Tommy drifts in and out of consciousness. His head is throbbing, his vision blurring. He's lost every sense of time, doesn't remember how long ago it was that he was knocked out, or when he woke up tied to the ceiling in what looks like an old warehouse.

He should have told Yaeger where he was going, that he was checking out a lead for their latest case, but it had seemed like a dead end, barely worth wasting time on. Stupid. Reckless. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

The light keeps flickering, or maybe it's his eyes. He's thirsty, so thirsty. There's a sharp pain in his shoulder, overshadowing the dull aches in his arms from where they're stretched above his head. His shirt is wet, sticky.

He drifts off again.

The next time he comes around, it's to the sound of sirens. A SWAT team rushes in, securing the room, and Tommy feels useless and inept, hanging there, needing to be rescued like a damsel in distress.

When he's cut down and laid out on a stretcher, the Sergeant walks up to him. Her demeanor is sympathetic, but she fixes him with eyes that are sharp and piercing. "They say you'll be back on your feet in no time. It was a close call, though." There's a pause that lasts a fraction too long before she continues. "We wouldn't have got to you in time if we hadn't received a message from Bubonic, tipping us off about your location. Any idea how he knew? Is he involved in this?"

The pounding in his head gets stronger. He's saved from having to answer when he loses the struggle to stay conscious. Small mercies.

He awakes in a dimly lit hospital room. It's dark outside, probably early in the morning, a couple of hours before the doctors do their morning rounds. He must be drugged up to his eyeballs with pain meds, because that's the only explanation he can think of why it takes him minutes to realize he's not alone.

In the chair under the window sits Bubonic, watching him through his stupid mask. It covers most of his face, but not enough that Tommy can't spot the hint of a smirk when Bubonic notices that he has his attention. "Hello, Tommy. Welcome back to the land of the living." His voice is soft and satin-smooth, and yet it grates on Tommy's nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

There are a million of things he wants to know, starting from _'How did you know where to find me?'_ and ending with _'Why did you bother to help me?'_ because he doesn't for a minute believe that Bubonic has anything to do with the case, but when he opens his mouth to fire his questions off one by one, he realizes that _thinking_ and actually _speaking_ are different kinds of beasts right now. Even getting out a word or two takes an immeasurable effort.

"Why're you here?" he mutters, syllables hopelessly slurred and jammed together as if they were linked with bubblegum.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to add to your considerable injuries," Bubonic says, and if Tommy wasn't fuzzy with pain and painkillers, he'd assure him that he wasn't actually worried. That he does, in fact, feel strangely safe in the presence of a man who's sworn revenge on him but has done nothing to seriously harm him yet. "I just wanted to check on you. You have a talent for attracting trouble, haven't you, Detective Calligan? If I hadn't been tracking your phone, you'd still be in that warehouse, slowly bleeding out."

 _Thanks for the invasion of privacy that accidentally saved my life_ , Tommy wants to say, but of course that's too ambitious in his state and what he actually manages is, barely, "Thanks." With the rest of the quip missing and the sarcasm getting lost in the weakness of his voice, Tommy hates how it comes out sounding annoyingly sincere.

Judging from the expression on Bubonic's face, clearly visible even underneath the mask, he isn't too fond of the sentiment either. He stands abruptly. "I should be going before your Cyber Crimes friends come back. I'll be seeing you around, Tommy."

Something about him seems familiar. The way he moves, his voice, the curl of his mouth under the mask Tommy can see all too well from this perspective, lying on the bed and looking up to him. He has a flash of memory, the kid standing in the middle of his apartment. _"Who really wants used linens, right?"_ The same cocky smile, the familiar amusement in the tone – _Son of a bitch!_

When Bubonic passes his bed, Tommy quickly reaches out and grabs his arm, stopping him. He doesn't have the strength to sit up and tear the guy's mask off, but then, he doesn't really need to. He already knows what he looks like.

Bubonic doesn't try to shake him off. If anything, he seems amused. "I don't think you're up to making an arrest."

He's right, of course, but Tommy feels he can't just let him go like that, not without– There's something he has to do, to say, something–

Blackness claims him again. Later, the last thing he remembers is the steady beat of Bubonic's pulse under his fingertips.

* * *

V.

Tommy's on his fourth glass of whiskey. Two and a half glasses ago, when he was still partially sober, he had a very public, very angry confrontation with his journalist boyfriend that ended with Connor shoving Tommy so hard that he almost lost his balance on his bar stool before walking away. The words were swallowed by the perpetual sound of bass drums that filled the club, but Charlie didn't need to eavesdrop to get the gist of the matter.

There was something deeply satisfying about watching Tommy come undone, even when Charlie's not the one who made it happen nor knows what exactly triggered the way he's downing drink after drink. It's too tempting to watch the spectacle the good Detective makes of himself from up close, too tempting not to push through the masses of bouncing, sweating bodies on the dance floor and slide up next to him on the bar.

He dons an innocent expression and fakes a double-take, as if this is but a chance encounter, as if he doesn't know exactly who Tommy is or specifically sought him out. "Aren't you the guy who puts an ad in the paper to give his stuff away and then pulls a gun on anyone who responds?"

Tommy looks at him sideways – a brief flash of recognition, his lip curling into a sneer – before he turns his focus on his drink again. "Do me a favor, man, cut the bullshit. I've had a shitty day. I don't feel like playing your fucked-up little mind-games tonight... _Bubonic_."

Interesting.

He wonders how exactly Tommy made the connection. Idly, he considers a strategic retreat. Dismisses the idea right away. Where would be the fun in that?

"Did your little lovers' spat with the boyfriend upset you?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

Charlie knows he shouldn't be baiting him, shouldn't say anything that confirms Tommy's suspicions, but the opening is too perfect to resist. "Not what the footage from the camera in your loft says." He smirks.

Tommy splutters, turning a wide-eyed, incredulous stare at him. "You little shit." Unexpectedly, he starts laughing. "I don't know why I'm even surprised." His reaction, all things considered, is staggeringly mild, and Charlie can't decide if he's disappointed or delighted. Unnerving Tommy, getting under his skin and keeping him on his toes still gives him a rush of satisfaction, but he can't deny that part of him likes the idea that Tommy might feel comfortable around him despite himself. He doesn't want to examine too closely what that means.

Tommy beckons Lindy's roommate at the bar for yet another refill. There's a storm brewing on her face when she comes over, fixing Tommy with a hard-eyed stare.

"I think you've had enough." She sounds pissed. Clearly, she's taking sides in the spat between Tommy and Connor, and it's not working out in Tommy's favor. "It's time you called it a night. Why doesn't your friend here give you a lift home?"

She motions to Charlie, who's waiting for Tommy to get worked up about the suggestion and point out that they're not friends, that they're as far from _friendly terms_ as it gets. But all he does is chuckle, setting down his empty glass and turning to Charlie. There's a wicked glint in his eyes. Well. Turns out Detective Calligan has more of a sense of humor than Charlie gave him credit for. "Yeah, why not? Not like it would be the first time. And this time he'd actually be _in the car_ with me."

The bartender looks confused, probably taking the comment for drunk ramblings, while Charlie tries hard not to show his amusement. He knows he's likely failing.

"Come on then, Detective, let's get you home."

In the car, Tommy's watching him with hooded eyes from the passenger seat, neck stretched back so that his head is resting against the foggy glass.

"What's your name?" At Charlie's sardonic raise of an eyebrow, he snorts. "Give me a fake one if you like. I just want to call you something other than 'Bubonic'."

Charlie fixes his eyes on the road. There's no point making something up. It's nothing Tommy couldn't find out if he tried, and nothing he could use. Charlie's been careful to cover his tracks, making sure there were no links between him and Bubonic. If Tommy wants to spill to his bosses, he'll come off looking like a fool, so what harm can it do to give him a name?

"It's Charlie."

"Charlie." Tommy tests the name on his lips like an exotic flavor he tries to evaluate. The alcohol hasn't quite slurred his voice, but has given his tone an oddly soft, dream-like quality, the way people speak when they're too tired to keep their eyes open. Tommy's gaze is steady though, seeking him out, even if it's lacking the usual sharp focus. "You look like a Charlie."

He grips the steering wheel tighter and drives, unnerved both by the softness of Tommy's tone and by how much he likes it.

When they arrive at the loft, Tommy fumbles with the lock while Charlie watches, torn between turning around and leaving Tommy to his own devices and taking the key away to cut this short. For once, he's all out of snappy comebacks, mentally reaching for one of those biting little remarks that usually come so easy to him and coming up frustratingly empty.

The lock turns at last and Tommy steps inside, leaving the door open behind himself. It could be negligence, but he's not that drunk and Charlie knows a blatant invitation when he sees one.

He should be leaving.

He follows Tommy inside and pulls the door shut behind himself. Hyperawareness crashes in on him. The camera above him. The noise from the street below. The wall where Tommy had Connor pinned a few weeks ago. The buzzing sound of the A/C. The weight of Tommy's unwavering stare.

Tommy's looking at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness with the feverish shine of too much alcohol and too little sense. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing." As soon as the word has left his lips, Charlie knows he's answered too fast. Even drunk, he suspects Tommy is too good a cop, too trained in taking in details, to miss that. His skin feels clammy and hot, like he's the one who's had too much to drink.

Tommy steps closer, right into his personal space, as if he's itching for a fight. A fight, or something else.

"Liar." His tone is soft, but there's a challenge in it, a gauntlet thrown that Charlie knows he won't be able to resist picking up.

Blood pounds in his ears and his hands clench into fists. He wants to lash out. He wants to tear Tommy down, ruin him, take him apart, crawl inside him and find out what makes him tick. It scares him how much he wants, but more than that, it scares him that he knows he's not going to turn and walk out of here even though reason dictates that he should.

Well then. So be it.

There's some comfort in the knowledge that if he goes up in flames, Tommy will burn as well.

* * *

(VI.)

The last time Tommy woke up with a hangover this bad, Lindy had just disappeared, hunting shadows of her past, her wild goose chase for her sister – or maybe her sister's killer – that she claimed she had to do on her own.

It's almost two years now since she left, and Tommy still misses her. If Lindy were around, yesterday would have turned out differently. She'd have helped them find the sick fuck who was kidnapping and murdering little girls. Tommy wouldn't have spent the afternoon at the harbor, looking at the dead bodies of two thirteen-year-old schoolgirls. He wouldn't have headed straight from the station to IRL, drinking too much and getting pissed at Connor for pressuring him for information about the case, and he sure as hell wouldn't have ended up waking up next to a dangerous genius hacker who he and his team spent years hunting down like a rabid dog.

Asleep, Charlie looks even younger than he did last night, or that day in his loft. Realistically, Tommy has to be in his late twenties, but it's hard to look at him and not think of him as a kid. It's stupid, but subconsciously, Tommy feels _guilty_ about last night, and not in the way he probably should. He feels like he was the one who took advantage – even though he was drunk and Charlie sought him out, even though Charlie's not some innocent, vulnerable kid; he's older than he looks and infinitely more dangerous.

Tommy may have been drunk, but he remembers last night in vivid, colorful detail, flashes of memory as sharp and clear as high-definition video footage. The sinful twist of Charlie's mouth, the way his usual cockiness had faltered when Tommy had stepped into his space. He'd found some of it again later, stretched out beneath Tommy on the couch, smirking up at him like he won this game. _"Do you want to fuck me, Detective? What would your boss say if she saw you like that?"_ His lips had opened when Tommy brushed his thumb across them, mouth closing around the digit and sucking, and it had taken all of Tommy's willpower not to come right there.

Last night, wanting Charlie – if that's even his name – had seemed easy, inevitable. In the unforgiving light of day, he feels the queasy tumble of apprehensiveness settling in his gut.

The ringing of his phone startles him. It's the station, and for a moment Tommy thinks they might ask about Charlie, imagines that the Sergeant somehow _knows._ Ever since the botched investigation that ended with him almost bleeding out in an abandoned warehouse, she's been giving Tommy those looks – half-curiosity, half-suspicion, as if she's going to figure out why Cyber Crimes' most wanted would help save the life of her lead detective if she only watches him closely enough. As if Tommy might lead her directly to Bubonic if she only bides her time.

When he takes the call, it's only Yaeger, though, with a warning that the press already got wind of the dead girls. _Candyman_ , they call the killer. Original. Yaeger informs him there'll be a briefing at ten, after the coroner's results are in. He sounds as weary and frustrated as Tommy feels about the case, knowing they got nothing except for dead kids and trails that have already gone cold by the time they come upon them.

When Tommy sets his phone down on the floor next to the bed, Charlie's awake, watching him. "Calling in the cavalry?"

Despite his words and the edge in his tone, he doesn't seem to be ready to bolt. If anything, he looks comfortable, relaxed, his body language implying that he thinks he's still half a dozen steps ahead, that even if Tommy had him arrested now, they don't have anything on him that would stick. He's probably right. Doesn't mean Shaw couldn't throw him in a holding cell, call the NSA and make him disappear for good.

Tommy doesn't want that. He doesn't know what he wants, but everything he's come to know about Charlie suggests that he isn't a killer by nature, that the stunt with the traffic power grid was a one-off, a man crazy with grief and pain blindly lashing out. Bubonic had gone silent after that, not a sniff except for that twisted anniversary party at IRL the year after and his attempts at drawing Tommy out, a private little challenge that in hindsight appeared to be mean little pranks more than anything, a hacker's glorified attempts at pigtail-pulling.

Tommy lies back down, trying to successfully fake being relaxed. He doesn't look at Charlie when he says, "You need to get your ego in check. Not everything's about you." His eyes flutter shut momentarily, but as soon as he closes them, he keeps seeing the mud-streaked bodies of the dead girls.

He feels the mattress shifting. When Charlie pulls himself on top of him, Tommy's hands automatically reach for his hips, steadying him and bringing them closer. It's a welcome distraction – pale, smooth skin and freckles, the barest hint of a shadow of stubble around his chin, mouth curved into a perpetual smirk – but the low-level rush of desire is not enough to cleanse his mind from the horrific images.

"You're not exactly at the top of our priority list at the moment," he makes himself continue. "We have a new case. Guy targeting young girls in chatrooms. Listening to their troubles at school or at home, offering to tutor them or just to hang out. Bullshit like that. And then he meets with the girls and takes them. Three girls we know about so far. The first two turned up dead last night. That's why I was at the club getting drunk last night, not because of the fight with Connor."

"Why are you telling me this?"

There's a wariness in Charlie's tone that suggests he already knows, but that doesn't make it easier to ask, especially when Tommy knows that it'll be a hard sell. "We could – _I could_ use your help."

Charlie's eyes harden. "No. There's no way I'm gonna work for the people who are responsible for –" He makes a move to roll off of him, but Tommy's fingers tighten around his hips, stopping him, interrupting him before he can finish the sentence.

"I'm not asking you to." He takes a deep breath, trying to structure the gazillion of reasons in his head for why Charlie should lend them his assistance into a convincing argument. "Look, I get that you loathe us and everything we stand for. I'm not asking you to, I don't know, betray your principles or some kind of bullshit like that. But there's a kid out there who might still be alive and is probably going through all kinds of hell right now, and we have _nothing_. None of our people have your skills. I'd ask Lindy for help but she's not here. Her friend George tried his best but he can't get anywhere. I'm not suggesting you come work for us. No one from the unit would have to know – in fact, they probably shouldn't. It would just be between you and me. But man, I really need your help. And I know you like to pretend you don't give a shit, that stuff like that doesn't faze you, but we both know that's a lie. When you started doing this, you were all about truth and justice and going after bad guys, and now you actually have a chance to really make a difference, so don't just turn it down because you're carrying a grudge."

Charlie quirks an eyebrow. "That was quite the speech, Tommy. Was that how your buddy Ben got to Lindy? Seduce her, then emotionally blackmail her into helping your Captain Shaw?"

Tommy refuses to let himself be baited. "I have no idea what went down between Lindy and Ben, but I doubt she ever hijacked his car or put up recording equipment in his apartment, so how about you don't compare that to what's going on between us? And if you seriously think I had any ulterior motives for having sex with you, you need to reevaluate how sober you think I was last night." His hands on Charlie's hips must be leaving bruises, but Charlie is not trying to move away anymore. He takes that as a good sign.

Above him, Charlie holds himself still. This time, when he turns and rolls off, Tommy lets him. If he gets dressed and leaves, there's very little Tommy can do about it, short of arresting him.

He doesn't get up, though. They lie side by side, staring at the ceiling, and the silence stretches between them like a taut rubber band about to snap.

It's Charlie who finally speaks. "I like to have a plan. I'm good with plans. Watching them unfold, coming together like the pieces of the puzzle, it's like... It's not unlike writing code. This, though. With you. This isn't– I didn't–" The edge of frustration in his voice resonates with how Tommy feels, and even though Charlie doesn't seem able to find the right words, Tommy understands what he means to say.

"Yeah. I know." He turns to face Charlie and offers a wry smile. "We'll just have to wing it."

Charlie snorts. "You inspire me with confidence." He sits up, pulling the covers over him. "Fine, give me your laptop. I'll see what I can do about your chatroom killer."

There's a brief moment where Tommy realizes how crazy it is to hand over his computer to Bubonic. Then again, Charlie already has everything he needs to ruin Tommy's job, his reputation and his life, and he hasn't done it yet.

Watching Charlie's fingers dance over the keyboard like a piano player composing a melody, Tommy feels yesterday's gloominess drain away. Charlie might be a planner, but when it comes down to it, Tommy's always been good at winging it, and his instincts have yet to let him astray.

End.


End file.
